


Rainy Season

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [10]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blue Hawke, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6043057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders used to love the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Season

As they climb out of the relative shelter of Darktown and into the rain that’s been sweeping through Kirkwall for days, Hawke pulls at the hood of his oilskin cloak. And then he looks at Anders, with his hair already plastered to his head, and asks if he’s all right.

“I like the rain,” Anders says absently, raising a hand to wipe away the rivulet trying to run straight into his eyes with some irritation. And then stops to look at that hand and reconsider. That might not be quite true, come to think of it. He _used to_ like the rain.

The violent storm that hit as the templars were trying to carry him back to the Circle, the sheets of water so thick he couldn’t see through them, until the roads turned to mud and they couldn’t move the cart for fear of injuring the horses. Like nature itself knew this was wrong.

The quiet sense of wonder that he thought must be Justice. He’d known rain in the Fade, the concept of it at least, the appearance, but not with such fine detail. Too much randomness to truly recreate, to capture the unpredictable sensation of where each droplet falls against his skin, leaving the spirit marveling at the neverending complexity of the physical world.

Even water sluicing down the back of his neck was real, grounding, not a part of Fade or Circle tower. Particularly nice when he knew he had the option of ducking back inside the shelter of the Keep whenever he liked, with no one ordering him to stay or go. Well, not usually, anyway. Not counting darkspawn attacks. Or the occasional swarms of angry nobles.

But Kirkwall’s rainy season means damp working its way into the clinic walls until they’ve started to smell of mold, coming from someplace he hasn’t managed to find.

And flooding in some of Darktown’s tunnels, sending people searching for new places to sleep among refugee camps that are overcrowded as it is.

And bits of soaked paper and mud and muck and more questionable leavings that coat his boots and the hem of his coat. The rain at Vigil’s Keep had smelled of earth and green; in Kirkwall, it just seems to float all the filth of the city up to the surface. Including the slavers they’re waiting for, conducting their business under the cover of the weather.

Most people have the sense to huddle under oilskins, if they haven’t got the luxury of staying indoors. And he really should find a cloak of his own, if only to protect his pouches from the damp, but he hasn’t gotten around to it.

He lowers his head, trying to shift the trail of water that keeps trying to drip into his eyes. It starts dripping off the edge of his nose instead.

“You’re going to get sick,” Hawke says. “Not going to do people much good to have a sick healer.”

“I don’t think I can,” he says slowly, focused on where he’s placing his feet. “I haven’t, since Justice.”

“Really? Huh. Convenient. Still making me miserable just looking at you, though. Come here.”

“What?”

Hawke steps close enough that their shoulders bump together, and Anders glances up, squinting against the rain—but there is no more rain, not running into his eyes anyway. He can still see it, it’s just—it’s sliding off to one side, he realizes, as the hum of Hawke’s force magic settles closer around him. A shield just barely above his skin. A few droplets get through, making him blink, but the rivulet of water running down the back of his collar is gone.

“What are you—all right, neat trick, cut it out. Someone is going to see.” But he can't help smiling.

“I can’t see my hand in front of my face in this,” Hawke says. “Just stick close.”

And he might not have seen it himself, if he hadn’t felt it first. And now he’s wondering how he’d duplicate the effect. It had never occurred to him to try. It wasn’t the kind of spell they taught in the Circle; they’d had _protection from the elements_ , in a sense, but that had meant something else entirely. Training them for combat without ever thinking of basic practicalities, as if they’re weapons instead of people—

Hawke leans against him, keeping the two of them covered, bringing Anders’ focus back to the here and now, the song of Hawke’s magic around him.

He still loves the rain.


End file.
